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Father Green guided his friends to a black-heart cherry-tree, and it seemed as if there were no end to their capacity for fruit. I am under the impression that some of us thought the cholera, in its proper place, might be a valuable institution. The cherry-tree being, at length, pretty well stripped, Father Green pointed out the beauties of the prospect.

The people of the villages were beginning to light their houses. The steam-boat fires threw a bright glare along the river. Occasionally a cloud of black smoke would be sent up in bold relief against the clear twilight sky, and curling in eddies, whirl away till it lost itself in deepening shadows of night. The young moon rose modestly over the scene, and if we had not been shut up, I think we should have enjoyed the evening. Our visitors probably did enjoy it. They were in no manner of hurry. Father Green appeared to be in his element.

They told stories and laughed and chatted a long time. There was an obvious purpose of spending the evening. They found seats on the brow of the hill, next the river. Conversation after a while subsided into a low hum, and finally into silence.

Father Green rose, and they followed.. We thought at last they were about to go away and let us out. But no! He led the way to some seats under the old elm near the spring. One of them pulled out of his pocket the several joints of a flute, another a flageolet, another a jews-harp, and a fourth unbagged a fiddle. Father Green led off in the song about Uncle Ned' and 'the place where the hair ought to gro-o-ow; The place where the hair ought to grow. They brought out each verse in full chorus, and it really sounded very well. The dog jumped out of the window, and went and laid down near them. Your brother slyly stole out by the back-kitchen door. Martin Luther ventured out again to a conspicuous perch. Father Green told a story about his mother, and several others told stories about mothers, and old family-times, the frolics, alarms, and incidents of childhood. We had kept as well out of sight as possible, but by close listening, could hear every word. Father Green proposed 'The Old Folks at Home.' Your mother said she thought the children would like to go out and hear that, and she had better go with them. I said, if they were all determined to go into such company, it would be my duty to go too. I was their natural protector. So out we all went. 'The Old Folks at Home' was sung with great unction. Toward the conclusion, the words There's where the old folks stay,' were pronounced with subdued voices and feeling. There was moisture in eyes that had not known a tear for a long time. The young man I have mentioned turned his back to us, but, I could see, used his handkerchief. They had reached a point where they all felt alike. Whether Father Green felt like a gambler, or the gamblers felt momentarily like Christians, I will not undertake to say, but there could be no mistake but that the feeling, whatever it was, was a common feeling.

'Now, boys,' said Father Green, I feel well. I'm happy. I want only one thing more. My mother and your mother have gone, or will go, to heaven. I want to pray.'

Down he went upon his knees, and down went every gay jacket in

the lot. By a sort of magnetic influence, every man went upon his marrow-bones. Your mother went to the spot and knelt among them. Your father - well, I don't mind acknowledging that your father caught the contagion, and did kneel not far off.

The purport of the prayer was, that as children we had been happy, but had wandered and erred and lost our innocence, and become restless and miserable. He confessed a great many violations of the divine law, not distinguishing himself at all from the gamblers. Indeed, his language was broad enough to implicate your mother and me. Then he begged for forgiveness and peace, and restoration to a state of childish purity and trustfulness and affection. He prayed for a place in heaven, and a reunion with lost friends. His faith reached forward with a strong grasp. To tell the truth, we were all a little elated. We made a sort of balloon ascension, and went up together. He closed with an earnest and affecting supplication for rest and peace for us all. When we rose, he shook hands with us all round, and pointing upward, sung the last couplet of the chorus. The gamblers falling in with their voices, it was repeated:

"THERE's where my heart is turning ever,

There's where the old folks stay.'

Your mother wished them to remain a moment, and produced from the house a supply of pie and cheese, after eating which, they departed.

This is an unvarnished statement of the facts in regard to a transaction which has since caused so much talk. It may have been partly my fault to allow them to eat up the cherries, but I am not responsible for the pie and cheese. I do not choose publicly to throw the blame on your mother, but between you and me, I wash my hands of it entirely. The company went away together. One of them eulogized Father Green by telling him he was a trump.' Another said he was one of 'em.' A third declared he was a hoss and no mistake.' When they reached the point of separation, they gave their parting salutations very kindly.

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'Good-bye, old fellow; you're game every inch.'

After they had passed on some distance from him, he overheard one of them saying to the rest with emphasis:

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He's got hair on 'im. I'll die if he haint.'

Father Green, unobserved, kept in sight of them, and seeing that the young man I have referred to kept himself partly aloof, and seemed to accompany them with doubtful and divided inclinations, he took a rapid circuit and came back to them by a side path.

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James,' said he, addressing the young man.

What, Sir?'

'Did you ever see a hermitage?'

Of what sort?'

Why, Sir, it bears about the same relation to the hermitages we read of that our young, cheap Gothic architecture bears to the old Gothic. It has all the disadvantages, and none of the poetry. Nevertheless, it is a sort of hermitage where a solitary old fellow like me can

shut himself up and growl or pray, as the humor takes him. And Sir James, I have a crust of bread there, which I sometimes break with a friend. To-night, James, the hermitage in the distance looks solitary. I am afraid there is not a frog to sing near it, nor an owl to hoot over it. Were you ever in a mood when it seems awful to be alone? Tonight we have been talking and singing of mothers and of home. Between me and those scenes, there is a great gulf. I am not cautious enough to leap it, yet I must try. I cannot stand on the brink and look over, without an effort to go over. You are, by a great deal, nearer to it in years and in experience. Come and help me across, or I shall fall in-into an abyss of darkness. Come with me, James, to the hermitage, and share my straw and my crust. Strike hands with me, James, and say you'll go !'

You will imagine that James's face would shine with a delightful surprise, but you are wrong. You do not understand the effects of vice. His features were clouded with one of the most painful emotions which the ALMIGHTY ever gave the human heart powers to endure an impulse to confide in proffered affection, mixed with the fear of deception and betrayal. The first step in the path of vice is attended with a consciousness of some body wronged, of gain or pleasure at some body's expense. There is planted a seed of distrust, and nothing is more obvious to a close observer in the growth of vice, than the corresponding growth of distrust and loss of self-respect, until the vicious soul, darkened for ever, and feeling itself unable to confide in any body, goes down step by step from small vices to irretrievable crimes.

That James at that moment felt the need of sympathy, and would gladly have thrown himself upon the bosom of any friend, with a burst of penitence and affection, it is impossible to question; but distrust had begun its baneful growth in his bosom. This genial proffer of companionship might be a trap for some sort of betrayal. It was at any rate out of the common course of events. With a quivering lip and unsettled eye, he assigned an excuse for evading the invitation.

There stood Father Green, in the pale light of moon and stars, but his face beaming with perfect truth. He stretched out his hand, and James could not resist to clasp it. The question was settled. The two went their way together.

The nearest path to Elwood Nathan's house lay through a ravine, and across several knobs or hills. It was prettily checkered by frequent changes of light and shade:

You know that in the old classic fables, when the poets take their heroes down to Avernus, they find it easy enough to go there. After having satisfied the objects of their visit, they strive to get out again, and in that lies the difficulty. So it is with bad habits. To regain the paths of virtue, having once lost them, requires not courage only, but constancy; and these qualities are the ones most weakened by irregular and vicious courses. The soul under such circumstances is like a bird in full strength, eager to mount into the upper air, but which has lost from his wings their best feathers by struggling in the fowler's net. How many souls have I seen, striving to breast the air with uneven pinions, now rising, now falling, now raising a cheerful song from an ele

vated perch, now pleading with low, fearful notes of despair from the level of devouring beasts, to which they had fallen.

The world passes by and says: 'Fly, bird, fly!' It takes credit to itself for good advice. The very thing of all others which he cannot do is to fly. How few, O my dear child! how few that will take the poor bird in their hands, lift him from peril, and feed him until his feathers be grown!

Father Green and James continued their way for some distance in unbroken silence, sometimes pausing to take in the changing features of the landscape. The first word uttered by either was in passing through a deep ravine, darkened with heavy shadows.

'This is gloomy, very gloomy,' said James. I wish I had never been born.'

'But this,' said his companion, rising to the top of the hill above the ravine, is not gloomy. Here is any quantity of moon-light; and if you were Romeo and I were Juliet, we might say things which to us would seem very wise, and to others very foolish.'

The idea of making a Juliet of Father Green, was so unexpected and grotesque, that it brought a smile upon the young man's face, and ended in unembarrassed laughter.

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Might it not be better,' he replied, for you to be Polonius to my Hamlet?'

Me Polonius! Eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum! Not yet, James. But then it would not be well for you to play Hamlet to my Polonius. Should you abuse Ophelia as Hamlet did, James, I think I should find marrow in my bones and muscle enough on them to cow-hide you, prince or no prince. My boot, James, would feel a tingling sensation, and I fear I should lose control over it. It might imagine itself to be a trip-hammer, to work horizontally and make itself uncomfortable till you were out of sight. No; I have a fancy that when I act any character not my own, I would prefer a female character. Perhaps it is because my figure is adapted to it, (glancing humorously at his broad shoulders and massive outlines,) but since you do not fancy me for a Juliet, I will be Meg Merrilies, and will tell your fortune. Here is the situation in which Scott would have placed the real Meg, on this solitary hill-top, her figure standing in bold relief against the sky, which is the only back-ground. Very well, I will be Meg Merrilies, and tell your fortune. Let me see the lines in your palm there, now, let us begin with what you think at this moment. It runs thus:

"HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore,

Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,

There seek my last repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.'

'You will hold a moment.

yet told:

So far, very well but the story is not

"FALSEST of woman kind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows, fleeting as air:
To thy new lover hie,

Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What

peace is there."'

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'In the name of GOD! who are you, and how do you know my story I may say my secret is yet untold,' exclaimed the young man, putting himself in a stage attitude, and seeming to act a part, but failing to conceal an emotion of real surprise.

THE OLDEN TIME.

BY SARAH 1. C. WHITTLESEY.

Alexandria, (Va.)
VOL. XLVI.

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To look without the Soul's still sanctuary,

O'er scenes that dot the Olden Time's domain:

Sweet scenes we 've passed, with march of years so weary,
Ne'er to return and live them o'er again.

IV.

Old scenes, far off: the daisy-dotted meadow
Is where we paddled, bare-foot, in the brook:
And, nestled down within the maple-shadow,
Our childhood's cottage fills a quiet nook.

V.

And, nearer, stands a bright and bloomy bower,
Upon the way-side of our Life's sweet morn,
Where first we grasped Affection's lovely flower,
That faded fast, and left us but a thorn.

VI.

And, yonder, 'neath a dark old drooping willow,
A green grave rises in the purple shade,
Where lies a young head on the coffin-pillow,
That, years ago, all tearfully we laid!

VII.

Oh! thoughts will come, despite the inner striving,
Of things that faded from us ere their prime:
And we must list the Spirit's secret shriving
Within the Temple of the Olden Time!

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